While none of my colleagues on the blog seem to be looking, I'll treat you to........


Badgers marching to Helm's Deep? Yes, to help eliminate the Snake, with his Lidless Eye.
For those who haven't seen the original or the even creepier sequel, you may want to do so first. Epileptics beware!

Cultural Review: The Jewish Museum, New York




I visited this museum, the largest Jewish museum in the Western hemisphere, to see the Schoenberg, Kandinsky, and the Blue Rider exhibit, which runs through February 12, since we had studied Schoenberg in my Program of Liberal Studies Fine Arts class. If you enjoy Expressionism in painting or music, or just want to know mroe about it, this is a great, comprehensive exhibit. But if you're not, the Jewish Museum, for reasons I will explain, is still worth checking out on your next visit to the Big Apple.

The museum's permanent exhibition is called "Culture and Continuity: The Jewish Journey," and it is splendid. Tracing the history of Judaism from Abraham to the present, it contains numerous artifacts, such as sixth-century (A.D.) mosaic floor from a synagogue, an amazingly diverse collection of menorahs, and numerous other sacred items. But more amazing than these is the incredible confidence and class with which the museum presents its material, which includes quotes from Jewish figures through the ages. It seemed to me that the museum's organizers are serious about their faith, and they were especially good at presenting the "tragic" aspects of Judaism going all the way back to Lamentations without in any trying to make me pity their plight or guilty for crimes committed by Christians against Jews. Rather, they simply ask for you to consider the claims of Judaism, and what they mean when enacted in life. That often does mean tragedy, and this is also a lesson for Christians. We need to do what we can to fix the problems of the world, but until the Second Coming, we're never going to get it done. The history of Judaism presented in this museum's exhibit gives a lesson of how to deal with that tragedy with true nobility and dignity, blessing (Psalm 34) God at all times, rather than cursing Him when things go wrong.

P. Initium sancti Evangelii secundum Ioannem.
R. Gloria tibi, Domine.

In prinicipio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum. Hoc erat in principio apud Deum. Omnia per ipsum facta sunt, et sine ipso factum est nihil quod factum est. In ipso vita erat, et vita erat lux hominum: et lux in tenebris lucet, et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt. Fuit homo missus a Deo, cui nomen erat Ioannes. Hic venit in testimonium, ut testimonium perhiberet de lumine, ut omnes crederent per illum. Non erat ille lux, sed ut testimonium perhiberet de lumine. Erat lux vera quae illuminat omnem hominem venientem in hunc mundum. In mundo erat, et mundus per ipsum factus est, et mundus eum non cognovit. In propria venit, et sui eum non receperunt. Quotquot autem receperunt eum, dedit eis potestatem filios Dei fieri, his qui credunt in nomine ejus. Qui non ex sanguinibus, neque ex voluntate carnis, neque ex voluntate viri, sed ex Deo nati sunt. ET VERBUM CARO FACTUM EST, et habitavit in nobis et vidimus gloriam eius, gloriam quasi unigeniti a Patre, plenum gratiae et veritatis.

R. Deo gratias.

Breaking News

Microsoft Purchases Evil From Satan

Any biz major has to envy Bill Gates for that one... (or would, if Bill hadn't presumably purchased envy along with the 6 other deadly sins).

The Collect for December 24:

Come. Lord Jesus, do not delay;
give new courage to your people who trust in your love.
By your coming, raise us to the joy of your kingdom,
where you live and reign with the Father and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.

As the homily at the Mass I attended this morning noted, this is a unique collect in that it is not addressed to God the Father, but directly to Christ. Thus, the urgency of the Advent season appropriately reaches a fever pitch at its end with this strongly-worded prayer to Jesus.

The Shrine of the Holy Whapping Ultimate Catholic Nerd Gift Guide

Well, the magical, blessed time of Christmas eve has come again, and with it we find the joy of the, er, holiday season lunging at our throats. And you, good Catholic law-abiding citizen and faithful blog-reader find yourself knee-deep in crumpled—and very much unused—wrapping paper trying to remember if you went and got the correct Aragorn action figure for little Arwen, your crazy brother’s youngest—darn it, she’s into Star Wars, not Lord of the Rings.

No, you did forget, and what a relief. Because do you really want to subject the future King Elessar to the ignominy of getting thrown into the toilet bowl like some sort of pre-Medieval Ti-di-Bol man like she did to the young person’s edition of Beowulf you got her last year after realizing the only book she owned was a copy of Baby Bear Up There, and half of that she ate at age 2. Elbereth, your wife mutters under her breath in frustration with your holiday gaffe. Darn. Star Wars. That’s the one with, uh, Pizza the Hut, right?

Come now, you’re a cultured Catholic nerd with a beautiful young wife and four home schooled kids named after the saints of the Roman canon—and who are teased mercilessly for it. And now you’re reduced to rummaging around Toys Backwards Us on the eve of the birth of the Savior for merchandise from a two-year-old movie you never saw and whose principal character was a teenybopper actress dressed like the Mongolian Yak Queen.

It’s enough to make a man want to go out and stick a six-foot bloody Spanish crucifix in the yard and decorate it with Christmas lights. Not your yard, necessarily, but someone’s, at least. Maybe the Episcopalians down the street.

So, what’s a Catholic Nerd to do?

Simple. Impose your tastes on them. Heck, if they don’t like it, you can just borrow it back some time and they’ll never miss it (oh come now, surely it’s only a venial sin), and if it works, you can go and call it apologetics. Soooo, in the great holiday-Christmas-Hannukkah-Ramadan-Beltane-whatever tradition of Dave Barry’s Gift Guide, which I have quite obviously ripped off here, and then some, let’s start off on the long, lonely Calvary road of the last-minute shopper. And tell baby Anacletus if he doesn’t like the Ottaviani Intervention crib play center, he better offer it up for the Holy Souls.

Come to think of it, wouldn’t the Ottaviani Intervention make a great name for a band? (Get over it, it’s a Dave Barry pastiche, and speaking according to the norms of the 1983 Code of Canon Law, there has to be at least one bad band joke—pretty lenient considering Trent required three at the very least on pain of anathema).

So, buckle your seatbelts, yer in for a bumpy ride.

And Now, the Gifts

1. St. Benedict of Nursia Coasters and St. Benedict Beer Stein
Available from the Order of St. Benedict Website Store, $7.50 and Mount St. Benedict Holy Shop, $25

Beer is Catholic. Roma locuta, causa finita est, considering it actually has a patron saint, Arnulf of Metz. Excepting a fine red wine, I’d call it possibly the most Catholic of adult beverages, which explains most of Irish history and those frigging weird noises from the dorm room upstairs.

It’s also a very monastic drink, since most of the monks of the Middle Ages enjoyed brewing it in between bouts of chanting the Office and illuminating manuscripts. Most illustrations showing saints bilocating in original copies of the Golden Legend may result from the fact Brother Ambrose simply saw two of everything after Sext.

Anyway, what could show your devotion to the great founder of Western Monasticism, St. Benedict, than to buy a coaster showing a tasteful reproduction of a fresco of him and his monks at dinner and slam down a big ceramic beer stein on top of it, augmenting his halo with copious watermarks? Uh, don’t answer that.

2. Pope Innocent III Action Figure.
Available from Archie McPhee & Co., $8.95

The one-hundred-sixty-seventh Pope: his super action-figure powers include all that fun stuff like excommunication, binding and loosing, and, according to his promotional materials, “a removable fancy pope hat,” which I guess is a triple tiara, though it looks also sort of like a bowling pin with infulae attached. Someone call Gamerelli.

Anyway, the detail on this guy’s incredible: I can see a pallium, a dalmatic, even, get this, what looks like an amice!, and then there’s the “intimidating” Latin text on his scroll, which seems to be suggesting the Hohenstaufens do something even more humiliating than standing in the snow in Canossa, entailing kissing a particular portion of the pontifical anatomy.

For even more fun, team him up with a cassocked Neo action figure and send them through time to—oh, I dunno, maybe run Voltaire over with a minivan or something. Though, for the baby liturgy freak on your list, I suggest not bringing attention to the fact he appears to be wearing a blue alb—or tell him they caught the Pontiff in a rare liberal mood during Advent. Whatever.

I’ll willingly raise my St. Benedict stein to the folks at Archie McPhee for finally addressing the crippling lack of papal action figures in today’s toy industry. What next, a Saturday morning cartoon show? Fun.

3. Pope Pius XII Comic Book.
Available from Newkadia, prices ranging from $8-$60.

Everyone knows JP II is a comic-book hero, but what’s a good Sedevacantalist to do? I have the answer, at least until the release of the new SSPX-Men collector’s edition in 2006. I'm afraid the Matrix comic starring Catherine Pickstock is strictly available only to Ecclesia Dei supporters...

But still! Yes, the perfidious neo-Catholic lie that John Paul is the only Pope to be featured in comic-book form is exposed! Rad-trads, don’t let this propaganda hold you back any longer! What—wait—it’s in the—gasp—vernacular? Not the sacred tongue of Latin? Surely the canons of the sacred council, the perpetual indult of—

Ah—well—I always said the last real pope was Pius IX—seriously, there were these space aliens and Freemasons, and, well—never mind. I’ll just take this rosary-themed comic book instead. Wait, it includes the newfangled Luminous mysteries? Curses, foiled again!

4. Calendario Romano
Available from the Almost Corner Bookshop, Rome, € 6, but please don’t buy it, it’s just too weird

Yes, just what every (hopefully female) Catholic nerd has ever dreamed of: a Seminarian of the Month calendar! This was the latest thing at all the Roman edicole—newsstands for those of you in Rio Linda—this season, along with the nicely ideologically balanced Mussolini and Che Guevara calendars, the latter being an appropriate gift for the Jesuits on your Christmas list if you’ve run out of yarn stoles.

Frankly, though, despite the panoply of birettas, cassocks, stiff Roman collars and soulful heavenward gazes, I couldn’t help wondering exactly if these guys really were in training for the clergy, considering the amount of fashionable stubble. Maybe they’re really closet Anglo-Catholics. I dunno. Maybe not bad as an emergency gift, if you’re trying to steer that high-strung teenage vegetarian next-door neighbor into the nunnery, just tell her Rev. Mr. January will be her chaplain.

5. Nuns Having Fun 2003 Calendar
Available from Amazon.com, $22.95

Okay, forget the last one, this one’s the ultimate nerd gift of the season. And what’s not to love? Vintage shots of fully-habited fifties nuns (wearing sunglasses in some cases) kicking back fishing, roller-skating, on the bumper-cars, and more puzzlingly, “frolicking in the surf” according to the website’s anonymous blurbist. “Think big dancing penguins,” they add, which doesn’t really help the situation much and instead suggests perhaps that Amazon.com has been indulging its peyote habit again.

On the other hand, being fond of uppity women with firearms, especially habited uppity women with firearms, I have to recommend the photos of the good sisters skeet shooting. Nuns with guns, sweet. The calendar, incidentally, should recall with the black and white and sepia “an added air of nostalgia from a more innocent time,” by which I suppose they mean the Era of Fr. O’Malley.

On the other other hand, the fact that shoppers looking for this calendar also were trying to find, variously, The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club 2004 Day-To-Day Calendar, 365 Stupidest Things Ever Said 2004 Calendar (They gave me a whole month), and, even more frighteningly, the Garden Gnomes 2004 Calendar makes me wonder exactly how innocent all this is, hmmm? Idiot Girls?

Conclusion

Well, that’s about it until next year. Happy frantic purchasing this Christmas eve: and don’t forget, there’s plenty of other nerdly gifts out there, from the famous Nun Dolls collection (I want one of those Pink nuns, by the way) to cardinal finger-puppets.

Or, if you’re in Rome, try hunting down Popesicles, the Popener (for your St. Benedict stein) or some commemorative Vatican Poker Chips. And for the non-Catholic social conservative on your list (or even your favorite Naderite if you want to annoy him), why not get him the talking Ann Coulter Barbie (Bill O’Reilly, I hear, owns two) or the official Club Seals, not Sandwiches tee shirt? The possibilities are infinite.

That, and Pre-Medieval Ti-di-Bol Man and the Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club would make a great name for a chant schola.

And now, the movie event we've all been waiting for, The Lord of the Rings, starring...



Humphrey Bogart?

Bandwidth warning: this is a huge file (8:50 QT movie)

I want the Ignatius Loyola model!

The perfect present for the pint-sized Presbyterian in your life: The John Calvin Lunchbox. Or maybe a Christmas ornament of the good doctor? Funny, considering he thought the holiday was some Popish frippery (the problem being...?). But heck, reason doesn't enter into any of this: You're predestined to buy it.

Image Credit: Gospelcom.net

Thu art His Moder for humylité

My first real introduction to the wild weird world of Early Music came during one a Christmastide past. I suppose there was also my father’s record of the soundtrack to the Six Wives of Henry the Eighth that helped open up that door, but I hardly listened to it that much, preferring to wear the grooves down on an album of national anthems.

Maybe I liked all the flags on the cover, I dunno. Whatever the case, I probably drove my parents mad from listening to Ja, Vi Elsker Dette Landet entirely too many times. That, if you insist on prying, is the Norwegian anthem, which sounds, actually, like Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly on horse tranquilizers. Anyway, the record player broke eventually, which closed off that particular avenue of musicological exploration.

Sooner or later, we discovered the joys of the newfangled compact-disk player, probably about five years behind schedule. Being an amateur Luddite myself, we tended to hem and haw and stall about new gadgets—I remember being convinced during high school that VHS was going to make a comeback and being very cautious about involving ourselves with the infernal DVD. I don’t think we ever fixed the record player.

Anyway, one of the first CDs we bought—after the 1812 Overture, indispensable if you have a militaria freak for a son—was the delightful Christmas album Sing We Noel by the Boston Camerata, which I have profiled in these pages before. I had to admit it was a revelation, all those strange and wonderful and rough and bittersweet harmonies that had been sadly lost over the centuries coming back to tickle my ear. Ad cantus leticie—

Though perhaps it should come as no surprise. Christmas is one of those few times when the layman really gets a crack at hearing some of the music of his forefathers, albeit perhaps strained and synthesized up the wazoo. There used to be carols for Ascension Day, for Easter, and even St. Clement’s day—one with the improbable chorus of going a-clementing, which sounds faintly obscene.

But since nobody celebrates Ascension Thursday on Thursday anymore, or because the marketing attempt to exchange anchor-shaped cookies on Clement-tide failed miserably, those are all lost to history, unless you’re a high-church Anglican with too much time on your hands. Plus, and I am loathe to admit it, in the popular mind Christmas has, amid all its commercialization, hung on to its religious origins with more tenacity than Easter. Santa hasn’t quite eclipsed our (singularly cuddly) newborn Lord quite as much as the equally huggable Easter Bunny has blocked the midday sun of the untouchable risen Christ—noli Me tangere and all that.

But back to Christmas carols, bowdlerized or not. I remember a particularly bizarre and myopic moment during my trip back home, when wandering around the Public School Auditorium Revival-style Song airways terminal of JFK Airport, they were playing what appeared to be a sort of caffeinated eighties remix of the supremely laid-back It Came Upon a Midnight Clear over the PA.

That’s a particularly flagrant case, but you could probably think of others. I’m reminded of the disco version of Good King Wenceslaus on one of those innumerable Mannheim Steamroller albums—do they ever do anything besides Christmas carols? Since they used to play their songs in between holiday specials on PBS during my childhood, I shall let that one pass for now.

On the other hand, at least some of the old carols are still wandering around, if perhaps someone has unkindly tried to spice them up with a synthesizer. There’s always the threat these days they’ll be choked to death by Frosty the Snowman …snowperson…snowpersonage…person of snowness…ah, heck, or survive only as homely curiosities crooned by Frank Sinatra on novelty albums with the explicit lyrics cut out.

Not that I have anything against the Chairman, but I must draw the line somewhere. Even Hannukah’s been reduced to the piddly little Dreidel Song when selections from Handel’s Judas Maccabaeus would make more sense. And among the more conventional religious Christmas carols still left standing, one can only listen to Hark, the Herald Angels Sing so many times, or pass out trying to hold that fifteen-odd syllable Gloooria on the chorus.

And now, allow me to get up on my soapbox. What’s the solution to those holiday singing woes? I suggest you—and me—and all of us go and have a peek at some of the old standards that are no longer standard, except possibly among the more antiquarian members of the Catholic blogosphere. The ever-helpful Jane at Catholics, Musicians, Students has already posted the stark and wonderful, and slightly gory Corpus Christi Carol, but there are plenty more.

You read me right, I did say gory (well, listen: Under that bed there runs a flood/The one half runs water, the other runs blood. Hmmm?) But Salvation is gory: look at a crucifix some time. And these carols reflect it. They are undoubted strong stuff, testifying to the infinite poetic capacity and theological depth that permeated even the lowest of popular minds of the Mediaeval epoch. They’re not afraid to tackle tough concepts even amid their simple piety, the two mingling as evocatively as the macaronic mix of antique vernacular and liturgical Latin expressing rude veneration and Scriptural genius. The Middle English text The Nativity is one such marvel:

An angel of cunsel this day is borne
Of a Maide y seide beforne,
For to save that was forlorne,
Sol de stella.

That sunne hath never doun goynge,
Nother his lyght no tyme lesynge;
The sterre is evermore shynynge,
Semper clara.

Right as the sterre bryngeth forth a bem
Of whom ther cometh a mervelus strem,
So childede the Maide withoute wem,
Pari forma.

It’s sometimes too easy to hang on to the cozy side of Christmas and forget the long, hard road that leads from the stable to Golgotha, manger to cross. The medievals knew this; their lyrics, if you strain past the quaint—and sometimes touching—misspellings, show a loving, even easy familiarity with the interconnected web of Jesus’s life and the Christian life of which it is the ur-type. The Nativity does so, showing the seamless continuity of salvation history from Bethlehem to Calvary. Let us continue on that road:

Marie so myelde, that quene of grace,
Hath borne a chielde — scripture seith soo —
To bringe mankyende out of that place
Where is bothe peyne and endeles woo.

Mary so myelde in worde and thought
Hath borne a chielde, Jhesus soo good,
The whiche ayene mankyende hath bought
On the roode tree with his hert bloode.

Mary so myelde, Moder and May,
Hath borne a chielde by hir mekenesse
That shall bringe us at Domes Day
Fro thraldom, peyn, woo, and distresse.

Not only do we have the cross, and, more importantly, upon that cross Christ crucified. We have the Last Judgment, inseparable from the two miracles of Virgin Birth and resurrected rebirth. And most strikingly, we have Mary. There she is, standing beneath the cross just as She rested in the hay alongside Her newborn Son. The Virgin is omnipresent in these verses, but never separated from Her Child, venerated and glorified—

Lady, so lovely, so goodly to se,
So buxsum in Thi body to be,
Thu art his moder for humylité,
Regina celi, letare!

—but not as a goddess, not for something She Herself has done, but for Her God-given purity—and that rarest of virtues, humylité. (And there is that puzzling buxsum bit, but not now, people). The spelling should make us smile, but the sight, the visible incarnation in the Virgin of the words exaltavit humiles should bring us proud, silly folk to our knees. And lo and behold, here comes the next stanza, telling us to do just that.

And therfore knel we doun on our kne,
This blyssid berthe worchepe we,
This is a song: humylyté!
Regina celi, letare!

No better gift to Baby Jesus, I think, than to kneel down to the flesh that gave Him life, the Virgin He Himself chose before all time.

Nativity, Piero della Francesca, c. 1470

O Emmanuel,
Rex et legifer noster,
expectatio gentium,
et Salvator earum:
veni ad salvandum nos,
Domine, Deus noster.

O Emmanuel,
the one awaited by the gentiles,
and their Savior:
come to save us,
Lord our God.

and here's the chant. (yay, chant!)

A Martyr for the Unborn

The Vatican has announced that four new saints will be canonized soon, among them Bl. Gianna Beretta Molla, my sister's Confirmation saint (Confirmation beata?). Bl. Gianna died at age 39 because she refused cancer treatment so that her unborn child might survive. Wow. I can't think of a saint's story that is more needed in our times.

Although St. Athanasius is right up there, too.

Florida Homeowners Group Tells Woman To Remove Virgin Mary

O Rex Gentium,
et desideratus earum,
lapisque angularis,
qui facis utraque unum:
veni, et salva hominem,
quem de limo formasti.

O King of the Nations,
and the one they desired,
keystone,
who makes both peoples one,
come and save mankind,
whom you shaped from the mud.

...and the chant.

His Imperial and Royal Majesty the late Karl I, Emperor of Austria and Apostolic King of Hungary, is to be beatified, thus saith Fr. Jim. Very appropriate, especially when one considers that the first of the Holy Roman Emperors, Charlemagne, is a beatus of the Church. Now it looks that the last of his successors (in a manner of speaking) will be raised to the glory of the altars as well. Plus, the iconographic combo platter of a totally sweet Austrian uniform and a halo will be pretty nifty. Vivat! Vivat! Vivat!

Ars Moriendi

Be praised, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death, from whose embrace no living person can escape. Woe to those who die in mortal sin! Happy those she finds doing your most holy will. The second death can do no harm to them.

—St. Francis of Assisi, Canticle of the Sun

Perhaps I will regret writing this, but it has to be done. About a week before I left Rome, I received an email from my parents about the bad news. Rosy Morell, my grandmother was lying in a hospital bed, her left side virtually paralyzed, her liver seeping blood. She had been riding with a friend when they’d run a stop sign.

The impact had come directly behind my grandmother’s seat, wreaking havoc with her spine. I would later see in the insurance report diagrams showing that the collision at the intersection had thrown the little car almost thirty feet. It was a miracle she was even alive.

And now, almost three weeks later, she’s in another hospital in rehab, her body half-mended and I wonder if we’ll be the ones to die instead, from the continuing carnival of stress and high blood pressure that daily romps through our lives.

We’re all no stranger to this; it’s been only a little less than a year since my grandfather, Rosy’s husband, passed away amid complications involving a burst gallbladder. Complications involving a burst gallbladder. Complications is about the best euphemism you can put to it, though it’s far too timid. He was a tiger in those last months, ranting, raving, shouting at the nurses—some of which seemed to be imaginary—as the chaos of sickness crumpled a mind that for his age had been almost startling in its lucidity and a soul even more remarkable in its fortitude.

Which in this case had been transmuted into full-blown pig-headedness.

Yet, somehow it was a peaceful death—deep down I had to face the fact it was finally his time to go. He was, in his own singular way, ready to be with God. He passed away one fall morning at the hospital just as the sun was coming over the treetops. I was blessed to be there, home on fall break.

His death itself seems surreal, still—he was an immutable fixture of my life for so many years, it’s hard to shake the thought he’s still just around the corner, perhaps napping in his favorite chair or listening to some Miami radio station entirely too loudly. It was the last way we would have expected him to go—he’d survived almost a century’s worth of crises spiritual and physical and executed a fair share of death-defying leaps in his time.

José Morell Romero was born in rural Camaguëy Province, Cuba in 1906 and died in Tallahassee in September 2003. We called him Abi, short for abuelo, grandfather in Spanish. In between he’d been a revolutionary, a lawyer, a supreme court justice, an exile for liberty. Not to mention surviving a plane crash in the Yucatan jungle, a couple of rather spectacular falls, and the more prosaic dangers of a score of Nebraska winters. Going quietly (more or less) in bed was about the last thing you’d expect with that resume. I know we didn’t.

The Latin world sees death in a variety of ways, sometimes familiar, sometimes strange and disconcerting. The warriors of ancient Spain, the Spain of El Cid Campeador and the Reconquista, lived with her fetid stench in nostrils. Death had a Moorish face then, and they paid her little heed. They were ready to lay down their lives for God and Santiago, and trusted in God’s mercy to accept this sacrifice from their hands. Sometimes even dying didn’t stop them. St. Emilian came back from the dead one last time to turn back the Saracens, and Ruy Díaz de Bivar, El Cid, achieved his greatest victory shortly after being killed in battle.

The inbred, decaying world of the so-called Siglo de Oro saw Sister Death differently, carrying on a vast and bizarre courtly love-affair with her. Philip II, the most elementally Spanish of the Spanish Hapsburgs, virtually spent the last years of his life living in his own tomb—the vast, melancholic echoing passages of the gridiron of El Escorial, a vast palace built in the shape of the instrument that roasted St. Lawrence to death.

We used to joke that Abi would climb into the coffin to make sure he was running on schedule, but with strange Philip, it’s hard to say what precisely was going through his mind.

Renaissance Spain obsessed gloomily over her like Hamlet standing on the brink. Mexico chummied up to her instead. Looking at the Day of the Dead it seems almost like they want to take her out for dinner and dancing and give her a good time for all her trouble. And thus was born from that union the Day of the Dead with its sugar skulls, zombie mariachis and funereal banquets. Weird.

Sister Death—what are we to make of her? There’s a golden mean somewhere amid all this morbidity. Her embrace—the embrace of a happy death—is a bridal one; the Mexicans are right to laugh with her. Though I’ll pass on the skull candy. Perhaps Philip was right to keep her in mind, to wait in readiness by the altar where they would sing his Requiem in black vestments. Though he could have smiled in between the tears. But El Cid’s warriors, perhaps they treated her, treated our sister bodily Death, the best, the way she expects to be encountered. Simply and solemnly.

Regarding death, the Cuba where Abi grew up—a young nation full of hope, a love-hate relationship with America and plenty of cheery Protestant missionaries to further confuse an ill-catechized population—had no stake either in Iberian stoicism or romanticism or good-humored Mexican morbidity. Nonetheless, history has slowly brought the floating world of the Cuban exiles into conjunction with the ancestral memory of that early Spain, the melancholic Spain of the first days of the Reconquista where it seemed as if the green standard of Mohammed would fly over the peaks of Castille until the end of time.

Perhaps it’s a fanciful connection for a man whose heroes were industrious empiricists like Cesare Beccaria. Still, I can’t help thinking during his days as a professor teaching Spanish literature in the snowy reaches of Nebraska that he couldn’t ignore the similarity between the horsebacked figures of José Marti, Cuba’s warrior-poet founding father, and the knightly hero of the Poema del mío Cid of eight centuries earlier.

History—both his own and that of Cuba and Spain—had taught him to be ready to go at any moment. Flicking through the pages of his autobiography Revolution in Cuba it is mind-boggling to think of the number of times he could have died over the last ninety-odd years. In the three years from 1930 to 1933, every moment he passed through could have been his last.

In that year, he had enrolled at the University of Havana at the worst possible moment in its history, in the middle of a student revolution against the Cuban dictator Machado. He helped organize the resistance, smuggled opposition newspapers, survived a harrowing imprisonment, and even survived a terrifying, stormy boat-passage smuggling guns from Florida. And he was ready to die for Cuban liberty at any second.

He did the best with the time given to him, not knowing whether it’d be ten minutes or ten years. Perhaps that was why he was always so punctual. Now he’s off the clock and can finally get some rest.

***
And now, here we are again, sitting by another sickbed. I hesitate. I can’t say whether anything we learned before with Abi can help us here. The accident was severe, but her body is slowly recovering. Slowly. She’s lucid, unlike Abi. She can walk again, she can eat again—it’s not hopeless. That’s what makes it all the more frustrating, and what makes us more tempted to give up hope.

I know she wants to recover. I’m not sure she knows how anymore. The pain discourages her, and sends her back to the bed after an hour or two of sitting up. But she has to bear it—quite simply there’s no other choice if she expects to get over this hill to recovery.

I don’t know if she expects death. She doesn’t want it—and I think she’s right. It’s not her time. She thinks the pain is killing her, but—but I’m not sure if her mind has drawn out the logical conclusion of that sentence. Death. She’s lived so long for others—for me, for my mother, for Abi—I don’t know if she understands how to live for herself.

It’s a monument to the resilience of the human body and the fragility of the human soul, perhaps. Or perhaps they’re both fragile; but the fact she could survive the accident, much less get to where she is now, physically at least, is mind-blowing.

It also makes you wonder how you want to go. Perhaps it isn’t a good thing, but I’ve never thought much about death—besides maybe some half-flippant Catholic-nerd aesthetic thoughts about hoping I live long enough to die at a time with better liturgies so I can get the choir to sing Tomás Luis de Victoria’s Requiem over the coffin and the priest to wear black vestments. Just like crazy old Philip Hapsburg’s funeral. But that’s not what we should be focusing on, I have to grudgingly admit.

Do we have the fortitude to linger, or should we pray for the grace of a quick death with just enough time to ask for forgiveness. Seeing all this pain, maybe it’s best to get knifed in the confessional (right after saying our contrition, of course). Like Flannery O’Connor said, “She didn’t think she could be a saint, but maybe a martyr if they killed her quick.” Or perhaps we should hope for the grace to accept whatever God has laid out for us. Yes, that’s the best, but we’re still weak little creatures, and the question still lurks in the shadows of our mind.

While perhaps the Ars Moriendi, the medieval art of dying, is a bit much for today, it’s still worth thinking about. Today death is a dirty word: a little spot of meditation on it might go a long way to changing that. Right now, amid all these crises, we’ve had our fill. Your turn.

Life’s messy. Death shouldn’t be. That’s why I don’t think this is over, my grandmother’s struggle. She’s still fighting, even if maybe sometimes she’s a bit confused as to which side we’re on when we try and get her to eat more of her orange hospital mush. Let me tell you, those of you who think visiting the sick is one of the wimpier corporal acts of mercy. You don’t know nothing. It’s a struggle, and I hope each and every one of you prays that the three of us don’t end up sicker than she is once this is all over with.

We can’t fathom how she feels, we just see her familiar face looking weepy, imprisoned in a preposterously-designed neck brace. But she’s gotta do something herself. She can move, she can shuffle, she doesn’t have to be shifted every time there’s a pain in her spine or in her side. She has to let herself be distracted from the pain—to at least try. She has to teach herself now. We can’t do it for her anymore.

We’re stuck in a vacuum between tough love and that even tougher virtue, charity. And right now, I’m not sure which she needs more.

"A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it."
                             ~John Steinbeck

Having passed through the fire and death of finals, I come at last into the 3-week paradise of Christmas Break. I've laid aside my coffee and Modern Philosophy and taken up a glass of red wine and a bubbling pot of fudge. It's good to be home.

The road home was rather adventure-ridden. It's a bit of a challenge bumming a ride when one has an 8:00 final on Friday, but after sending out word on the grapevine, I finally tracked down a friend of a friend who was driving back to good old Minnesota on Saturday morning, and had one seatbelt left in his Topaz. Now, fitting five people into such a car is one matter, fitting five people and their three weeks worth of luggage into such a car makes the state room scene look downright cavernous, especially when one of the passengers has a duffel bag large enough to bring himself home in, and the driver is bringing home a piece from his sword collection (a pretty freakin' cool Spanish piece at that). After much careful packing and wedging, we were finally in and on our way, although I was fairly certain that getting out would require nothing less than the Jaws of Life.

Everything was running smoothly as could be expected, and we had just passed the last tollbooth in Illinois, when the car started to twitch. You see, the gas guage was broken, and while one or two people in an empty car can get well over 300 miles to a tank, apparently five people and their luggage will get exactly 247.

Having coasted to the bottom of the South Beloit exit ramp, we discovered the great advantage of having a full car, namely, four people to push. In accord with Murphy's Law, getting to the gas station involved a full mile, several uphill grades, and three left turns. I hope, at least, that five crazy college kids provided comic relief for motorists on an otherwise boring leg of the trip home. And no one can say I haven't earned the break.

But sitting here, sipping tea, blogging at my leisure, and reading The Silmarillion as the faithful old dial-up fetches my pages, 'tis but a happy memory.

This break will pass quickly, no doubt, in a flurry of sugar, butter, eggnog, champagne, friends and family. I have an exciting semester to look forward to at the end of it though, with a Latin class taught by the best prof in the department, a Logic class full of friends, Issues in Sacred Architecture from none other than Duncan Stroik, and War and Philosophy, for which we're reading both King Lear and City of God. The extracurriculars will be exciting, too. I'll be working hard with people to promote Eucharistic Adoration at ND, as well as traveling to the March for Life in D.C. and then to Rome for Spring Break!

But for now, the siren scent of the kitchen calls.

O Oriens,
splendor lucis aeternae,
et sol justitiae:
veni, et illumina
sedentes in tenebris,
et umbra mortis.

O Dawn,
splendor of eternal light,
and sun of justice,
come, and shine on those
seated in darkness,
and in the shadow of death.

Find the chant here.

"'Seven Sorrows' would be an excellent name for a band."

We've all thought it. And now it's been done. If you live near Cali and are interested in helping these Catholics rock, or if you're just curious, check out the link. Unfortunately, their mp3's don't work yet; nonetheless, worth a click.

Catholicism is the largest religion in the world... yet most Catholics can not name even one true Catholic band. Our mission is to bring true Catholic teachings to the youth through our gift from God, music. We are proud to be conservative, bound to the Holy Father, and we are not afraid to speak against anti-Catholic beliefs such as abortion, contraception, pornography, and premarital sex.
To arm ourselves for this battle and lifelong spiritual journey, we have consecrated ourselves to Jesus through Mary's Sorrowful and Immaculate Heart, so that we may not stray from the path of Christ... If you are in California, click here if you would like to help

I would also like to make a plug for Notre Dame's own, Danielle Rose.

Her first and
her most recent (the 20 mysteries of the Rosary!!) CDs are here.

O Clavis David,
et sceptrum domus Israël,
qui aperis, et nemo claudit,
claudis, et nemo aperuit:
veni, et educ vinctum
de domo carceris,
sedentem in tenebris,
et umbra mortis.

O Key of David,
and scepter of the house of Israel,
you open, and no one shuts,
you shut, and no one opens:
come, and lead the prisoner from jail.
seated in darkness and in the shadow of death.

... and the chant

Diocese Mergers?

"In recent times, new social, geographical and economic shifts, new lifestyles, the unfortunate reduction in number of sacred ministers in many regions that had an ancient Catholic tradition, and the justifiable need to coordinate pastoral activity have led to the suppression of some particular Churches, while their territory and population have been merged with that of the Bishop of a larger particular Church. "

I've heard of parish mergers, but this was news to me. Has anyone heard about about this before?

Saw Return of the King midnight opening night. I'll be putting up my review as soon as I have time to breathe. (Still have a Latin final and a Philo paper to finish off tomorrow!) In the meantime, have a look at Domenico Bettinelli's take.

St. Jerome and St. Thomas Aquinas, ora pro me!

O Radix Jesse,
qui stas in signum populorum,
super quem continebunt reges os suum,
quem gentes deprecabuntur:
veni ad liberandum nos,
jam noli tardare.

O Root of Jesse,
who stands as a sign for the people,
kings stand silent in your presence,
whom the nations will worship:
come to set us free,
put it off no longer.

Find the chant notation here.

Also have a look at Fr. Tucker's post on the various antiphons and settings.

O Adonai,
et dux domus Israël,
qui Moyse in igne flammae rubi apparuisti,
et ei in Sina legem dedisti:
veni ad redimendum nos in brachio extento.

O Mighty Lord,
and leader of the house of Israel,
who appeared to Moses in the burning bush,
and on Sinai gave him the law,
come to redeem us with outstretched arm.

Find the chant here

And while we're on the topic, check out this nifty little guide to chant notation here.

"It is as it was"

The Pope has seen The Passion, and likes it! (surprise, surprise!) Good news for those of us who have to wait a few months. Not that that includes many people anymore, it seems. Well, Mark Shea and I will be there, anyway.

The Other City of the Immaculate?

Check this out: it looks like the fledgling Florida-based Ave Maria University is also planning on building a new urbanist-style development--a whole city, really--around their campus. Called, creatively enough, the town of Ave Maria. I say pretty darn cool, speaking as a Catholic and a supporter of traditional civic planning, especially since the last attempt to do something like this went belly-up. Who did that, the Society of St. John? Can't recall. Anyway, check out their website.

I know, Thomas Monaghan's proposal to put together a somewhat-more-orthodox retread of our own beloved Notre Dame (which does have her ups and downs) has gotten some flack in certain quarters, but I wish him the best of luck, especially since the college and town of Ave Maria will be needing, ahem, some good classical Catholic architects in a few years...ahem. And the more Catholic nerds in higher education, the better. Let a thousand shapeless plaid jumpers bloom.

But anyway, the best of luck in all areas...except, of course, regarding the college's new football team. I mean, come now, I have to draw the line somewhere, don't I?

How well timed is this?

No sooner do I complete my countdown for The Return of the King, than the Church commences Her countdown for the return of the real King!

O Sapientia,
quae ex ore Altissimi prodiisti,
attingens a fine usque ad finem fortiter,
suaviterque disponens omnia:
veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae.

O Wisdom,
who proceeds from the mouth of the Most High,
reaching out mightily from end to end,
and sweetly arranging all things:
come to teach us the way of prudence.

And for fans of chant (who isn't?) find it here. (yeah, Dominicans!)

It's Coming....

So close, I can almost taste it!

As the countdown moves from days to hours, I'd like to offer a particularly beautiful quote. It's on the long side, but just think of it like the readings on Easter Vigil!


"And, as if in answer, from down below, coming up the road out of the valley, voices sang:

A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath,
Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees
The starlight on the Western Seas.
Frodo and Sam halted and sat silent in the soft shadows, until they saw a shimmer as the travelers came towards them.

There was Gildor and many fair Elven folk; and there to Sam's wonder rode Elrond and Galadriel. Elrond wore a mantle of grey and had a star upon his forehead, and a silver harp was in his hand, and upon his finger was a ring of gold with a great blue stone, Vilya, mightiest of the Three. But Galadriel sat upon a white palfrey and was robed all in glimmering white, like clouds about the Moon; for she herself seemed to shine with a soft light. On her finger was Nenya, the ring wrought of mithril, that bore a single white stone flickering like a frosty air. Riding slowly behind on a small grey pony, and seeming to nod in his sleep, was Bilbo himself.

Elrond greeted them gravely and graciously, and Galadriel smiled upon them. 'Well, Master Samwise,' she said. 'I hear and see that you have used my gift well. The Shire shall now be more than ever blessed and beloved.' Sam bowed, but found nothing to say. He had forgotten how beautiful the Lady was....

Then Elrond and Galadriel rode on; for the Third Age was over, and the Days of the Rings were passed, and an end was come of the story and song of those times. With them went many Elves of the High Kindred who would no longer stay in Middle-earth; and among them, filled with a sadness that was yet blessed and without bitterness, rode Sam, and Frodo, and Bilbo, and the Elves delighted to honour them....

As they came to the gates, Círdan the Shipwright came forth to greet them. Very tall he was, and his beard was long, and he was grey and old, save that his eyes were keen as stars; and he looked at them and bowed, and said: 'All is now ready.'

Then Círdan led them to the Havens, and there was a white ship lying, and upon the quay beside a great grey horse stood a figure robed all in white awaiting them. As he turned and came towards them Frodo saw it was Gandalf; and on his hand he wore the Third Ring, Narya the Great, and the stone upon it was red as fire. Then those who were to go were glad, for they knew that Gandalf also would take ship with them.

But Sam was now sorrowful at heart, and it seemed to him that if the parting would be bitter, more grievous still would be the long road home alone. But even as they stood here, and the Elves were going aboard, and all was being made ready to depart, up rode Merry and Pippin in great haste. And amid his tears Pippin laughed.

'You tried to give us the slip once before and failed, Frodo,' he said. 'This time you have nearly succeeded, but you have failed again. It was not Sam, though, that gave you away this time, but Gandalf himself!'

'Yes,' said Gandalf; 'for it will be better to ride back three together than one alone. Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.'

Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, and went aboard; and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass of Galadriel that Frodo bore glimmered and was lost. And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise."

                           ~Lord of the Rings, Book VI, Chapter 9

Battle of the Virtues

Which virtue will win?

OK, so I've been having a conversation lately with some friends about what virtues are most important (excepting the obvious Faith,Hope,& Charity). I'm personally rooting for obedience. "Never is the will of God more perfectly fulfilled than when we obey our superiors." - St. Vincent de Paul.

Among other possible virtues in the running...
Poverty, Chastity, Meekness, Humility, Mortification, Recollection, Self-denial...

Thoughts?

For those interested in good liturgy.............



......Check out the Recent Events section of the Dominican Students Webpage. Seriously: these guys seem to have awesome Solemn Vespers about as often as Newsday publishes hitpieces on the Church. Especially worth checking out are the programs for some of the liturgies, with their (often) Latin Mass settings and "original" words to some great tunes like "For All Thy Saints in Warfare." (Coming soon: special new verse: All praise to thee Saint Flutius, Thou hail'd from Bologna........"). These Dominicans are worth checking out for so many reasons, as I noted in my short post about my August retreat with them.

Interesting commentary from the Old Oligarch about artistic expression of the Virgin, the Church and Magisterial infallibility (a.k.a., "why is Mary wearing a stole"?). It also explains that curious allegorical stole-wearing image I saw representing Adoration at the Sacrament Altar at Santi Ambrogio e Carlo back in Rome, as well as the interesting stained-glass image of the virtue of Faith back at Notre Dame wearing full Papal regalia--I have a pet theory that the misinterpretation of some sort of image like that might have accidentally gotten the Pope Joan myth rolling, but some more on that later. Good going, O.O.

Screwing Up in Rome

So, I find myself at home again, enjoying a quiet day by myself. In the kitchen, fixing some pop tarts. The sun’s just starting to come out in the back yard, filtering through the thick woods and backlighting the patchwork of mandarin-yellow leaves peeping through the evergreen pines and the huge laminated magnolia fronds with their little white sparks of reflection. Long grey-purple frosty morning shadows on the grass. Like tiger stripes.

North Florida at ten AM. I’d never noticed how beautiful it was.

Breakfast, and the paper, with the delightful mug-shots of a woolly-looking and very captured Saddam Hussein to further cheer me up. And then there’s those pop tarts. After a steady diet of these for breakfast, you find them repulsive—redolent of cardboard and artificial chocolate, especially if you eat them cold straight out of the foil packet while trying to figure out if you’re going to be late to your summer job. Today, they don’t seem so bad, though I’m a bit mystified as to how imitation cacao ever became a breakfast food.

Do I miss Rome? I can’t say. It’s there in the back of my mind, half-ignored, half-remembered like the still-packed luggage lying in the stair hall. They’d lost the big suitcase at JFK, turning up only yesterday. I’ve yet to check it but I hope the Christmas cake I’d bought the night before I left at the Camilloni bar at Sant’ Eustachio is still both intacta and fresh.

There are certainly enough things I’d wished I’d gotten at least a glimpse of before I’d left; the crèche at Santa Maria in Aracoeli, with the miraculous Bambino; the church of Santi Apostoli; and maybe another strategic dose of gnocchi ai quattro formaggi. But somehow, I don’t regret it: I’ll be back again next semester, a little older, a little wiser, and perhaps without the head-cold that’s bothering me somewhat at the moment.

It’d been most frustrating the last full weekend I’d been in Rome. I had grand plans. Due dates and projects were simply not going to get in the way of one last crack at the Eternal City. It’d started out auspiciously enough with my visit to Piazza Navona to browse through all those Befama-kitsch stockings and knockoff Nativity scenes, but then at noon he blue sky turned an ominous dirty grey and it started raining. So much for museum-going or another stroll down the Corso. We spent the day in and soaked our minds in a showing of the extended DVD of The Two Towers in the empty Aula.

The rain is the worst thing about winter in Rome. It’s not heavy—not always, at least. Simply ubiquitous, and unpredictable at the same time. The additional risk of being occasionally salted by hailstone chips doesn’t add to the allure. On the other hand, there’s also fog sometimes, which is somewhat fun. It doesn’t get much weirder when you wake up early one morning to take advantage of the free admission to the Vatican Museums last Sunday of the month and find that Michelangelo’s dome has vanished under a bizarre canopy of low-lying cloud.

Sunday wasn’t much better. Our group visit to the catacombs of Santa Priscilla—as well as our meeting with the legendarily hilarious archaeologist-nun Sister Marta—had gone belly-up because of the idiosyncrasies of the Italian bus system, and by the time the dust had settled, it was too late to hit San Gregorio for one last Tridentine hurrah before I left. An increasingly dismal sky put a damper on any further explorations of the city.

I had to face it. I’d screwed up. In Rome. All those “I’ll wait until I have a weekend free,” “I’ll wait until the project’s done”—all those had been wasted.

Still, by sunset, the rain had let up. As I headed towards the Vatican, I saw streaks of golden evening parting the thick canopy of blue-purple clouds. It was magnificent. The Christmas crèche in front of the Basilica was still hidden behind plastic hoardings, but inside, the vast nave was crowded with throngs of strolling pilgrims. Japanese tourists took the inevitable snapshot standing by the enormous cherubs by the holy water font. The oil lamps of the confessio blazed with subtle pinpricks of flame.

The red light on the English-language confessional was out, and the crochety OFM Conv. who, atop a big red-checked cushion, is perpetually there was nowhere to be seen. I decided my more-or-less weekly confession wasn’t so urgent as to necessitate using the only other venue available, a Portuguese polyglot who spoke Italian, Spanish and maybe French better than English—the last language and the smallest type on his little framed sign. Plus, the confessionals there are probably the most uncomfortable in the city. Had I screwed up again? Oh well.

So I turned and strolled through the polychrome marble caverns and paused to listen to the choir intone Conditor Alme Siderium as Vespers began. Three priests draped in purple and gold copes officiated beneath the great bronze Chair of Peter, while ranks of purple bishops stood in the choirstalls.

There’s something about visiting a great illuminated church at night, the way the voluminous glow of the lights pushes back the darkness of the opaque windows, the unfamiliar reversal of daylight and lamplight, night and interior dark. Unlike the oratorical, almost operatic gloom of the Chiesa Nuova at twilight or the Byzantine mingling of lamps and darkness at San Attanasio, it was an artificial noon here, Bernini’s architecture splendid in all its electrified glory.

I lingered briefly on the edge of the crowd, and decided not to stay for the rest of the service. It was growing dark far too quickly, and the Borgo was strange at night. My first evening in Rome, I’d walked across town to have a glimpse of the stars over the dome only to confront the echo of vespers or mass going on inside, amplified into the sinisterly empty, dark square by enormous outdoor speakers. The streetlights atop their suppository obelisks were dark, and teenagers were lighting rows of terra-cotta oil lamps along the street for reasons that were never explained to me.

However, this time, this one last time, the street was glowing with orange lamps. Above, the moon was breaking forth with Gothick theatrical panache from a purple billowing sky above the floodlit archangel of Castel Sant’ Angelo.

Despite a missing confessor and rain, it seemed like things were starting to look up for my last weekend in Rome.

I spent a half-hour on the way back in the genteel red-velvet-walled rooms of the little Museo Napoleonico south of the massive Palace of Justice, looking at dozens of busts and paintings of Bonapartist figures I knew, I thought I knew, or had no clue who they were.

Not bad, though there was an acute shortage of uniforms, drums, muskets and the sort of things one likes to see at Napoleonic museums. On the other hand, there was the lovely smiling and slightly careworn bust of Letizia Bonaparte, Nappy’s mother, and probably the one with the most brains in the family. And, even better, was the gorgeous gauzy Winterhaltur portrait of Napoleon III’s missus, Empress Eugènie, the former Spanish Countess of Montijo. If I had ever met her face-to-face, I’d have been reduced to a puddle of infatuated romantic mush within two minutes.

And who can blame me? After all, I’m told she was quite the Catholic. I backtracked twice to gaze at it, and would have done it a third time if the docent hadn’t pointed me back out into the lobby. Afterwards, I bought a postcard of the Empress and headed back towards studio to get ready for evening mass.

I thought the adventure was over, but it got even better. I managed to get lost.

You’re never really lost lost in Rome; it’s simply a matter of figuring out which direction to hit and just striking out for it through a maze of back-alleys. Street-names, foreign, complicated and often on hopelessly obscure little signs, are of no help. After a while, you get the hang of navigation and pick up a few familiar beacons to orient yourself.

A bicycle hanging above eye level from the sort of metal sign you associate with No Parking heralded my descent into Wonderland. Lights were strung overhead, blazing merrily above the Via dei Coronari, crowded with the hum of Christmas cheer. They say it’s named after the rosary-sellers that used to congregate along the narrow street, and now it’s lined with dozens of antique shops, their well-lit front windows filled with great trophies of gilt and ormolou.

So I strolled along, watching the café windows fill up in the chill purple evening, pressing my nose up to the glass of a closed militaria shop to note the toy soldiers as well as the display of a suit of heraldic livery for the footman for some Roman noble. Inside, a bald and corpulent man was sitting at a desk in the back and busying himself with a ledger. He seemed to have no interest in doing business. I noted the hours (closed Mondays, so much for tomorrow), though I never had a chance to get back there.

And then, turning the wrong way at the wrong corner I stumbled upon Piazza Navona completely unexpectedly. It was now a riot of colored lights, crowds, carousel-going children, mimes on pedestals and dozens of garishly gleaming stands selling the usual assortment of Nativity scenes as well as some new ones I’d missed the other morning, including hat-sellers, artists and much, much more. It was even more glorious and wacky and Italian by night—and so it should be.

I’d come full circle, back where the weekend had begun so hopefully under a pleasant blue sky. And, walking back to studio as I began to mentally compose this essay, I had to admit I had done pretty well for a screwed-up weekend.

Gimli Raises the Axe for Western Civilization

"“There is a change happening in the very complexion of Western civilization in Europe that we should think about at least and argue about. If it just means the replacement of one genetic stock with another genetic stock, that doesn’t matter too much. But if it involves the replacement of Western civilization with a different civilization with different cultural values, then it is something we really ought to discuss — because (hang it all) I am for dead-white-male culture!”"

2 days!

"And so it was that Gwaihir saw them with his keen far-seeing eyes, as down the wild wind he came, and daring the great peril of the skies he circled in the air: two small dark figures, forlorn, hand in hand upon a little hill, while the world shook under them, and gasped, and rivers of fire drew near. And even as he espied them and and came swooping down, he saw them fall, worn out, or choked with fumes and heat, or stricken down by despair at last, hiding their eyes from death.

Side by side they lay; and down swept Gwaihir, and down came Landroval and Meneldor the swift; and in a dream, not knowing what had befallen them, the wanderers were lifted up and borne far away out of the darkness and the fire.

--------------

When Sam awoke, he found that he was lying on some soft bed, but over him gently swayed wide beechen boughs, and through their young leaves sunlight glimmered, green and gold. All the air was full of a sweet mingled scent.

He remembered that smell: The fragrance of Ithilien. 'Bless me!' he mused. 'How long have I been asleep?' For the scent had borne him back to the day when he had lit his little fire under the sunny bank; and for the moment all else between was out of waking memory.
                       ~Lord of the Rings, Book VI, Chapter 4

A Papal Gem for Gaudete Sunday:

"An unmistakable characteristic of Christian joy is that it can coexist with suffering, because it is totally based on love. In fact, the Lord who 'is at hand,' to the point of becoming man, comes to infuse in us his joy, the joy of loving. Only in this way can one understand the serene joy of the martyrs even in the midst of trials, or the smile of charity of the saints before those who are suffering: a smile that does not offend but consoles."
                ~John Paul II, Dec. 14, 2003

Dark Tower of Mordor.........or Lutheran Church?



So I was doing a little research into my Danish heritage, specifically the churches of Copenhagen, and I found this. Amazingly enough, the Inside is actually quite attractive, including this nicely done modernist altar rail. All in all, a fascinating building.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we got him."

Dave Barry asks, "Why can't they just lose that ring in the sink?"

FRODO: Darn! I still have this darned ring that I got in the first movie!

SAMWISE: The ring with the terrible power that causes everyone who comes near it to overact?

FRODO: Yes! And to destroy it, we must walk, slowly, in real time, all the way across New Zealand!

SAMWISE: But who will guide us?

FRODO: How about a reptilian computer-generated creature with a bad comb-over?

SAMWISE: Dick Cheney's in this movie?

The Shrine of the Holy Whapping Tolkien Quote Marathon TM continues

Saruman looked round at their hostile faces and smiled. 'Kill him!' he mocked. 'Kill him, if you think there are enough of you, my brave hobbits!' He drew himself up and stared at them darkly with his black eyes. 'But do not think that when I lost all my goods I lost all my power! Whoever strikes me shall be accursed. And if my blood stains the Shire, it shall wither and never again be healed.'

The Hobbits recoiled. But Frodo said: 'Do not believe him! He has lost all power, save his voice that can still daunt you and deceive you, if you let it. But I will not have him slain. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing. Go, Saruman, by the speediest way!' ...

Saruman turned to go, and Wormtongue shuffled after him. But even as Saruman passed close to Frodo a knife flashed in his hand, and he stabbed swiftly. The blade turned on the hidden mail-coat and snapped. A dozen hobbits, led by Sam, leapt forward with a cry and flung the villan to the ground. Sam drew his sword.

'No, Sam!' said Frodo. 'Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a noble kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against. He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.'

Saruman rose to his feet, and stared at Frodo. There was a strange look in his eyes of mingled wonder and respect and hatred. 'You have grown, Halfling,' he said. 'Yes, you have grown very much. You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt of your mercy. I hate it and you! Well, I go and I will trouble you no more. But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell.'

He walked away, and the hobbits made a lane for him to pass; but
their knuckles whitened as they gripped on their weapons.

                     ~Lord of the Rings, Book VI, Chapter 8

A bit of distraction for everyone working on finals


Tolkien Scholar


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SouthBendTribune.com: Abuse cases disclosed by bishop

It's nice to know that there are bishops out there who aren't afraid to say things like this:

"In this diocese ... the amount of pedophilia is small. ... Most of this is against teenage boys, and that's homosexuality"

and in our very own diocese here at ND.

Thanks also to Chris for pointing out the giant Guadalupe picture in the background at the press conference. OLG, Patroness of the Americas, pray for us! (alot!)

Maybe it's just the business major in me...

... but I thought this was really funny.

After all, what college student wouldn't want a free Tibet?

Reveling in the sheer joy of Tolkien's prose...

"'Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.'

'Alas, not me, lord!' she said. 'Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City.' And she did him a courtesy and walked back to the house. But Faramir for a long while walked alone in the garden, and his glance now strayed rather to the house than to the eastward walls."

Home For the Holidays

It seems inevitable that I use a familiar song title for my post about leaving. It's almost traditional now; I don't know how many friends of mine have sent me emails with titles like "Leaving on a Jet Plane" over the years when they went off to college (who wrote that one, anyway?). So, as of eight in the A.M. tomorrow, I'll be no longer a cittadino of Rome, at least for one long relaxing holiday month. And then back into the hurlyburly of Italy, refreshed and excited for a second chance. These last few weeks have been a festival of stress, so I look forward to my return in January with a fresh perspective and a clean slate.

It's both exciting and slightly daunting: what will I do with all that time? Tallahassee, Florida, isn't known for having quite as many cultural amenities as, say, Rome, or probably even Orvieto, but it is, thanks be to God, home. What will I do? Very little, and I'm grateful for that. At least I hope so.

There will be some blogging, for sure. I won't abandon youall, not now. I've still got some remarks on what I did my last weekend in Rome and my little adventure seeing the Pope celebrate the feast of the Immaculate Conception (or at least a glimpse of a white-clad arm, a zucchetto and the flailing bodies bunch of hyperactive nonna-aged groupies). And maybe a word or two on our arkie Christmas celebrations, a remarkable mixture of pig-out and feverish last-minute drafting. And, lastly, God willing, maybe even our very own Holy Whapping Holiday Special: Christmas in Florida.

That being said, pray for me and pray for my family. I just need to remember it's almost over. The problem is, I'm stuck presenting my project last, and the review is scheduled for being over at six in the evening, which means, I'll probably be here until nine. Offer it up, Matt, offer it up.

T-minus 5 days and counting...

"But marred and dishonoured as they were, it often chanced that thus a man would see again the face of someone that he had known, who had walked proudly once in arms, or tilled the fields, or ridden in upon a holiday from the green vales in the hills.

In vain men shook their fists at the pitiless foes that swarmed before the Gate. Curses they heeded not, nor understood the tongues of western men, crying with harsh voices like beasts and carrion-birds. But soon there were few left in Minas Tirith who had the heart to stand up and defy the hosts of Mordor. For yet another weapon, swifter than hunger, the Lord of the Dark Tower had: dread and despair."

                   ~Lord of the Rings, Book V, Chapter 4

T-minus 6 days and counting!

"Even as Pippin gazed in wonder the walls passed from looming grey to white, blushing faintly in the dawn; and suddenly the sun climbed over the eastern shadow and sent forth a shaft that smote the face of the City. Then Pippin cried aloud, for the Tower of Ecthelion, standing high within the topmost wall, shone out against the sky, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, tall and fair and shapely, and its pinnacle glittered as if it were wrought of crystals; and white banners broke and fluttered from the battlements in the morning breeze, and high and far he heard a clear ringing as of silver trumpets."

                    ~Lord of the Rings, Book V, Chapter 1

Return of the King quote of the day:

For the last week before Return of the King comes to theatres, I have decided to run particularly good snatches of Tolkien's prose (and poetry!) by way of a countdown.
So, without further ado, T-minus 1 week and counting:

"So passed the sword of the Barrow-downs, work of Westernesse. But glad would he have been to know its fate who wrought it slowly long ago in the North-kingdom when the Dúnedain were young, and chief among their foes was the dread realm of Angmar and its sorcerer king. No other blade, not though mightier hands had wielded it, would have dealt that foe a wound so bitter, cleaving the undead flesh, breaking the spell that knit his unseen sinews to his will."

           ~Lord of the Rings, Book V, Chapter 6

Good things on the horizon!!

John Paul II Urges Examination of Conscience on Liturgical Reform

"In a society that lives ever more frenetically, often deafened by noise and distracted by the ephemeral, it is vital to rediscover the value of silence," [JPII] says.

In a word, the Pope says that "the pedagogy of the Church must 'dare' to present lofty objectives as, for example, the celebration of the Liturgy of the Hours."

The La Sapienza Wine Bar, and a Visit to Piazza Navona

I’ve spoken often about the street life of Italy, the one country in the world that seems like a twenty-four-hour open-air comic opera. However, the other day I saw a much more literal example of urban theater, or at the very least a pause between acts. In the stuccoed, bulky shadow of Sant’ Ivo della Sapienza, I saw one of Italy’s cinematic auteurs plying his trade.

Okay, maybe he was just shooting a commercial, as it did not have the look of a major motion picture. Still, filming on location, even if it’s the outdoor seating secton of the La Sapienza Wine Bar, has to count for something. The cast and crew were sitting around with a mixture of dejection and mild pique waiting for a graffiti-festooned and extremely noisy dump truck to clear out of earshot.

Inside, the café patrons (or perhaps extras) were trying very hard to look cool, while a bored, tanned and perhaps slightly shopworn starlet glugged down bottled water at one of the iron sidewalk tables. I caught a glimpse of the big zebra-striped clipboard gadget that always seems to show up at movie-making sites, or at least that’s they way it is on television. And on it, the name of the auteur and his work. In this case, one Sergio Prenoli. And the rather generic title of Roma.

Well, at least I had a name. By that point I had also walked straight into a now rather indignant bald man because of my rubbernecking. I sputtered some apologies and headed back to studio and thought about ways to fill up the pleasantly blank slate of my upcoming weekend.

I swung by later with my two friends Vera and Amelia—the Maenad girls, as I call them, because of an amusing mishap that happened on a trip to Tivoli involving two litres of red wine, my puritanical teetotaler habits and an empty mineral water bottle. But that’s another story. Anyway, Sergio Prenoli hadn’t gotten much farther with his great work. The starlet was looking fashionably bored at a different table with a different drink and they’d introduced a boom mike as well as wrapping one of the reflectors in blue plastic. Roma was looking very much true to Italian life: nothing seemed to be happening.

We weren’t stargazing, anyway, we were heading over to the Piazza Navona Christmas fair. The morning was surprisingly cool and clear, the first blue sky I’d seen in days. And it was wonderfully blue, and wonderfully chill. If I’d had any doubts about Italy’s devotion to Christmas, it had vanished. Over one narrow street, someone had hung half-arcs of red crepe and pine, festooned with gilt angels. Meanwhile, Piazza Navona positively buzzed with Yuletide hustle and bustle.

The sun bounced off the pure white stucco of the Brazilian Embassy façade, pigeons wheeling lazily in the cool air. Dozens of booths ringed the long, narrow piazza, while a carrousel spun in the center in a blaze of prerecorded music, flashing mirrors and garish nude caryatids encrusted with perhaps their tenth layer of paint. Everyone seemed to be smiling.

At first glance, some of the stalls had very little to do with Christmas. The girls stopped off at the first one, diffidently hovering on the edge of the carnival, carefully looking through velvet scarves hanging on a rack. The rest of the stand seemed to be devoted to soccer memorabilia, gloves, weird Peruvian knit caps and an incongruous Che flag. A couple of freckled blonde California girls exchanged casual tourist remarks in their native accent, curious to hear after so long in Italy. And then there was the preposterous mannequin torso with molded Redneck sideburns and goatee wearing the Assitalia team colors.

We moved on, passing a serious bevy of pudgy, bespectacled little nuns and a sprinkling of young matrons with toddlers. They seemed to be the target audience, as the booths were so weighed down with great garlands of hanging merchandise it would have taken a midget to clear one of these extravaganzas without knocking down either a bundle of Christmas stockings with pictures of Japanimation characters or La Befana playing soccer or maybe a seven-foot-tall Pink Panther about the color of cotton candy.

It was a six-year-old’s dream come to life. There were action figures of all races, creeds and TV shows, rapiers with cardboard Zorro masks, racks of miniature plastic Roman centurion cuirasses, and then a truly inexplicable guitar-shaped stuffed animal with the words “I love you” on its belly. What on earth would a kindergartener make of this monstrosity? Or the stuffed Rastafarian doll with cigar, bongos and gold teeth? Or even more puzzling, that enormous four-foot-tall gorilla with a snake shoved up his nose?

On the other hand, there were also some wonderful, and doubtlessly absurdly expensive, stuffed tigers and panthers snarling away with open mouths and quite convincing teeth. Most of them looked larger than the children who would want to play with them, set pieces designed to drive young Roman mothers nuts trying to explain to their charges that they did not need toys bigger than some compact cars.

Santa was there as well, either as a mechanical dummy doing a sort of Elvis hip-swinging dance, or available as a four-piece set of musicians, Santa variously on drums, bass violin, saxophone, or most frighteningly, accordion. A string of Christmas lights played several anthems dedicated to this curious secular saint.

La Befana, however, was clearly queen of this festival, and great bundles of Christmas Witch dolls were hanging like strings of onions from a dozen booths. Occasionally one would let loose with a diabolical pre-programmed electric cackle. A few other ones had a faint converted-kewpie look, less Macbeth than Samantha Stevens. Some others even looked faintly obscene.

I don’t really get La Befana the Christmas Witch. I don’t get the Italian witch fascination at all, though I admit to being a bit hazy on her existence up until the other day. (I still am not wholly convinced Strega Nona isn’t really just a brand of pasta, either.) A holiday mascot that looks due to scare the bejeepers out of your average toddler (or at the very least give the most redoubtable first-grader a case of, as they say, the jibblies) seems rather an unlikely giver of gifts. But Italy is Italy.

I did however, get the rest of the fair with crystal clarity. There were remarkable booths bedecked with hundreds of glassblown ornaments tempting fate (and small children) in the clear cool air. They were vast translucent rainbows, some cobalt, some gilt, some shocking pink with feathers like exotic fishing lures. Even more pleasurable were the candy stands, piled high with shiny obsidian-black dollops of licorice, green almond paste and dozens of jelly worms, or the occasional mandarin-yellow wax apples, looking good enough to eat.

And then came the nativity scene vendors. They were everywhere, selling everything and anything you could need to kick your crèche up a notch (or ten). There were plenty of quaint cork-carved stables and working miniature wall fountains and corn cribs and just about any other structure imaginable, some populated by horrible smooth-faced Fontanini knockoffs, others filled with minute figures that looked likely to get trampled underfoot like so many post-Christmas lego bricks back at home.

There were automated smithies with their brawny-armed blacksmiths striking plastic hammers against plastic anvils with balletic repetition that suggested both strength and repetitive stress motion injury, as well as all sorts of weird and wonderful accessories, like baskets of silvery sardines no bigger than grains of rice, tiny (and anachronistic) tin milk pails, frying eggs in pans and even trays of mushrooms. And you thought gold, frankincense and myrrh made for weird newborn gifts.

The girls stopped to examine more scarves at a more ordinary stand which also sold novelty boxer shorts. There was so much more here, the hoardings with the enormous Lenin-sized effigy of Gwyneth Paltrow asking for her martini, the weird hydrocephalic Tweety-bird balloons, the disreputable heraldist at his computerized booth peddling the history, shield and noble title of your last name, and the great festival of travertine that Bernini had erected in the center centuries earlier, the grand rocailled spike of the Fountain of the Four Rivers with its aquamarine water and sober river-gods around which this Roman weirdness seemed to swirl.

And then there was the empty cabin at the center for the coming attraction—a vast nativity scene. Maybe it would have sardines and mushrooms and frying pans, but it would also have something far more important, the Child that all these children squealing for La Befama were ultimately waiting for.

The girls finished up their shopping and we headed back to studio. They decided they had to ride on the carrousel at least once before they left. Not a bad idea, since Christmas at Navona only comes once a year. Which makes me wonder what they do with all those mini-sardines for the rest of the time.

Katy

As usual, I'd forgotten. It was December first, and the chapel where St. Catherine of Siena had died so many centuries ago, was to be open late that afternoon. Possibly the only shot I would ever get at seeing it, and even worse, it was just around the corner from my place in Via Monterone. Meanwhile, studio was disintegrating into a zoo as final project due dates loomed and groups started to squabble.

I probably should have stuck fast to my desk. But I excused myself and ducked down the stairs into the cool darkness of the early Roman evening, jogging down the uneven cobbled streets and trying desperately to remember where I had seen that enormous plaque marking the site of the Transito di Santa Caterina. It was on the side of an apartment block with flaking orange stucco. Near a big door. An enormous door. Possibly.

This wasn't helping. I had to get there in time.

I turned a corner, realized I was stuck at the back of the Pantheon, and then doubled back, trying to remember what esoteric combination of turns had brought me there before. I was lost, tired and panting from the run, and I was still virtually in my back yard. It was hopeless.

Then suddenly, I was down the right slanting lane, and found myself in the Piazza Santa Chiara. Wait--was it the hotel, the Albergo Santa Chiara? Had the site of St. Catherine's deathbed gotten dedicated to another nun, and a Franciscan to boot?

No. Couldn't be. Maybe. This was Rome, after all. But still, there was another door, and I glimpsed light within, bright and white and almost clinical. A faded fresco of the Annunciation stood above it, blurred by the purple night.

I was even more disoriented when I stepped in. Inside, there was a big arc of lit letters over the door, Teatro something-or-other. I seemed to have wandered into a theater. And an ugly one at that, with a surprisingly plain, blank and weirdly characterless lobby. All it needed was a Go Tigers banner and the cast of Saved by the Bell to look like the inside of an American high school principal's antechamber. It was truly bizarre.

I stammered out "Transito?" and got a blank stare from the docent. Then, still utterly bewildered, I tried again. "Santa Caterina?" Ah, now we're talking. He made some vague gesture to the left, or possibly the right, and I moved forward. There seemed to be an equally bland auditorium off to the left, filled with nuns. If this was the chapel, someone probably should have gotten excommunicated.

But it wasn't. I went up some steps into a low-ceiling'd hallway ornamented with a fragment of stucco cherubs floating incongruously among the white concrete vaults. And there it was, doors open, lights lit, looking like a glorious baroque broom closet.

I was alone, but the rumble of voices from the lobby buzzed distractingly in my ears. It was hopeless. I wasn't going to get a quiet moment this way, not in a million years.

Still, it was an elegant little chapel, faced with marble and ornate roccoco bronzework. I pushed aside the little flower arrangement below the altar and looked down to see the reliquary inside, holding the skull and armbone of some obscure saint designated in Latin as John the Martyr. A few equally forgotten relics were placed behind plaques on either side. Two prie-dieux had been set up, and there were a handful of plastic bucket chairs in rows incongruously standing on the marble floor.

Most of the paintings were surprisingly amateur, showing gentle St. Catherine as weirdly, almost hideously pasty and puffy-faced, in bold contrast to the inlaid understatement of the chapel's architecture. One showed her literally exchanging her heart with Christ, less mystical than grisly. Still up on her image on the altarpiece, there was something to her eyes, upturned serene sky-blue almonds, that seemed to make it all worth it.

I sat there for a while, fumbling with my rosary, and found myself beginning to smile. Calm spread over me. And I realized, eventually, it was time to go and get back to work. All would be well.

But before I got up to go, a curious thing happened. As I said one last goodbye, I realized I'd called her, not St. Catherine, but simply Katy.

The Singing Well-Diggers and Other Entertainments
CD Review: Sing We Noel: Christmas Music from England and Early America. Nonesuch, 1991.

Remember Schroeder in A Charlie Brown Christmas when he plays some alleged "Beethoven Christmas music"? That's me about now. Well, almost. Maybe not Beethoven, but Praetorius and Heinrich Schutze, at least.

Christmas music, for me, isn't Jingle Bells and endless supermarket repetitions of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but rather I take the opportunity during the sacred season to enjoy plenty of early music CDs. There's my two faves, the Gabrieli Consort's two Lutheran Christmas albums. Rather a surprising admission coming from me, Mr. Chauvinist Catholic Triumphalist, but these aren't the work of the Lake Wobegon Church Choir.

The two CDs are dedicated to liturgical reconstructions of a Christmas celebration at the Saxon ducal court in 1660 (including a seventeenth-century oratorio faintly reminiscent of Handel's Messiah) as well as of the morning service at a hypothetical north German cathedral from 1620. They're astounding in their outrageous--almost medieval--joyfulness, a hyperactive collision of Venetian polychoral singing, kettledrums and Ein feste burg ist unser Gott. The fact that the ensemble includes all those weird instruments like sackbutts, shawms, harpsichords, and the beer-bottle-shaped great bass rackett, it's hard to resist.

They've also done an impressive if slightly ponderous two-CD set of Epiphany at Bach's home parish, but we'll get back to that on January 6. Say what you will about that gloomy Teuton Marty Luther, but he could certainly write a mean hymn. Also, ironically enough, there's more Latin in the Lutheran hymns showcased than in the average Catholic parish today. Hmmm?

Okay, I'll get off my high-church hobbyhorse. If you're looking for something a little more general and perhaps user-friendly, the Boston Camerata's lovely Sing We Noel does the trick nicely. The Boston Camerata has put out a plethora of themed Christmas albums, A Medieval Christmas, A Renaissance Christmas, An American Christmas, and so on and so forth. However, Sing We Noel brings together the best of each album, I believe, and reveals an unjustly-forgotten slice of American musical history to boot. It's a favorite around the Alderman household every December.

There's a remarkable vigor to the pieces, such Nowell, out of your slepe with its ear-catching combination of semi-chant and tambours, and also Exultemus et Letemus. The latter was sung by boisterous choirboys on St. Nicholas's day and punctuated by medieval French exclamations of "am I loud enough!" and "can you hear me?" Another delight is Nova, nova, Aue fitt ex Eva, which indulges in some Latinate worldplay about the relationship between the name of Eve and the Ave of the Virgin, punctuated by some charmingly-sung verses in archaic English.

Perhaps the deliberate, archaelogical ye-olde-ness of the lyrics of many of the pieces may put off some listeners. I used to think the accent pronouncing the toast Make We as Mere as We May which immediately precedes the singing of Wassail sounded a bit too close to the Muppets' Swedish Chef character for comfort. Now, however, I appreciate it a bit more keenly and love the exotic bittersweet syllables of the semi-Chaucerian English in the track Gabriel from Evene Kin which transposes a sweet boy-soprano carol with a reading on the Annunciation from the Wycliffe Bible. Wycliffe's Englishing of Scripture was, admittedly, idiosyncratic, but here, we still can glimpse the gauzy figures of the angel and the annunciate Virgin through that verdigrissed haze of Medieval words.

Also, when you puzzle out the translations, some of it is actually pretty darn funny: Make We as Mere as We May instructs that wet blankets should be thrown in ditches, for example, while some of the Latin texts have a humorously shocking lack of political correctness.

And then there's the singing well-diggers. That's a family inside joke, as the final track, Gloustershire Wassail which is an arrangement of Wassail, Wassail All Over the Town, has some peculiar accoustic quirks to it. For some reason it sounds like the singers are processing down a long corridor or perhaps digging a well. It'sa striking conceit, if a little bizarre, but another one of the album's peculiar and sometimes uexpected charms. You have to get used to it, really; medieval music doesn't always sit on the ear the same way modern tunes do, but when you come to know them, you will love them.

Besides that, though, there is plenty to entertain the untrained modern ear. There's a pleasant set of variations on Greensleeves I could listen to for hours, as well as a tantalizing sampling of shape-note singing from Early America in the form of While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night. Shape-note singing might be described, perhaps uncharitably, as Palestrina for Dummies, a simplified system of notation from Colonial days that was designed for people without music-reading skills. The result is remarkably harmonic, almost polyphonic but without the sometimes troubling polish of more academic compositions.

It's wonderfully unvarnished. That's part of the attraction of many Christmas carols, isn't it? Most are anonymous, naive, sometimes even silly. But they've endured, and even come to be admired by the greatest of composers. They're humble music enclosing a sacred mystery, just as a humble stable housed, for one night, Something bigger than the whole world.